


Nothing Else

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Licking, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one thing Curufin truly wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Else

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://porn-tree.dreamwidth.org/23215.html?thread=525487#cmt525487) Porn Tree prompt.
> 
> Also fills the Wet/dirty square in my Season of Kink card.

“It's perfect, as always,” Fëanáro says, turning Curufinwë's latest creation in his hands under the light of the large lamp bathing the forge in a pale glow. It's a hunting knife for Tyelcormo, a large, sturdy one, designed to pierce boar hide. 

Curufinwë stands at some distance from his father, a hand resting on the workbench, gauging the expression on Fëanáro's face with the same reverent attentiveness with which his father is inspecting the dagger.

Fëanáro swings it back and forth, assesses its weight, then lays the long, gently tapering point over the palm of his left hand. “The right balance, and aesthetically pleasing too,” he praises, his eyes following the lines of the whorls decorating both sides of the blade around the fuller, “...and, of course, deathly sharp.” 

The light catches on the cutting edge as he draws it over his wrist, inclining it so that it licks his skin. 

Curufinwë gasps loudly as a thin line of red appears on it where the dagger has scratched it, but Fëanáro simply brings the wrist to his lips and licks the cut clean. He lays the knife down on the workbench delicately, as if it might have shattered, then he turns, and his eyes, alight with pride and love, fasten on Curufinwë's.

“I am blessed, to have such a skillful craftsman for a son.”

The fingers of Curufinwë's left hand rub nervously against the palm of it, and he can barely speak for the emotion which surges in him at those words. “It's -...it's all thanks to you.”

“No,” Fëanáro curtly denies, taking a step towards him. He takes Curufinwë's left hand in his own, and wraps the right his right wrist, tugging lightly on it to coax Curufinwë to raise that too. “It's your hands,” he says, and lifts both to his mouth, places a light kiss on the back of each, “your bright intellect,” he kisses Curufinwë's forehead, “your dedication and diligence which make you capable of such accomplishments. All the instruction I could have given would have been wasted without your ingenuity.”

He turns the hands and covers the palms and the soot-stained fingers with slow kisses.

The touch of his father's lips is exhilarating, like the rebounds in his arm whenever he hammers on metal, a rush of excitement coursing through his whole body, and deeper, seeping through his skin and all the way to his heart. 

Fëanáro clutches both hands to his chest, and they stand in sweet intimacy.

“Let's go to bed,” he says after a time, and Curufinwë nods. 

*

Fëanáro doesn't waste any time with bathing, licking the sweat off each and every part of Curufinwë's body as he uncovers it, heaping praise on him whenever his tongue isn't gliding over heated skin, until Curufinwë is drunk on sensation, and the faintest brush of his father's lips on the tip of his cock is enough to make him come.

The first spurt of his seed lands on his father's face. His eyes drift shut at the sight, and he only feels the rest of it spray across his own chest. His hips don't stop twitching even after he has no more to release. His father's hands grip his flanks and stay there. He draws in a sharp breath, and there's the lingering smell of soot and ash, as familiar and as dear as touch. The pleasure, every small part of it, is so intense, so beautiful he almost weeps. 

He doesn't weep, but he wails softly when, upon reopening his eyes, he sees his father stick out his tongue and lick his semen from his chest.

“Your taste, too, is the headier than any liquor,” he murmurs. 

“Let me -” Curufinwë begins, trying to sit up, but Fëanáro stops him and pushes him back towards the mattress, crawling further in between his legs and forcing them further apart.

“Not tonight,” he says, bending to lick one more streak of semen from his belly together with the last of his sweat. “Tonight I want to pamper you, my little fire. Shower you with love, second your every whim.”

“Then take me, right now,” Curufinwë demands huskily. He swallows, trying to bridle his own excitement, and his voice becomes softer. “Please...I need you.”

Fëanáro smiles. “As you wish.”

Curufinwë twists to reach for the small of jar on the nightstand, but his father is quicker. He takes the jar, removes the lid, and dips his fingers in it. He smears the thick salve over both his hands, and while the right reaches between Curufinwë's legs to slick his hole, the other curls around his own shaft, slicking it from tip to base. His fingers work deftly and swiftly; he won't let Curufinwë wait too long. He instructs him to raise his hips and grips his thighs with slippery hands, settling them over his own. 

His cock only briefly teases Curufinwë's opening, brushing against it before pressing to enter. The movement is practiced, sure, and Curufinwë all too eagerly meets his father's thrust. They're joined, Fëanáro sliding in to the hilt, pulling back, and pushing in again. 

Curufinwë props himself up on his elbows, staring straight into his father's eyes. “Dad -” he moans, “- hard.”

Fëanáro doesn't hold back, so that his body rocks helplessly on the mattress.

“It's -” Curufinwë falters; the relentless movement of his father inside him has already almost overcome him, but he tries to steady his voice, “being with you, being held by you...all that I want. I don't care about anything else.”

Fëanáro is not any less affected by those words than Curufinwë was earlier by his praise. “I know...I know.” His hands leave Curufinwë's thighs and start wandering over his chest. His thrusts become gentler. 

Curufinwë falls back on the bed, and abandons himself completely to his father.


End file.
